Unexpected
by SunnyRea
Summary: John Laurens joins the continental army in the fight against the British and meets Alexander Hamilton for the first time. -historical, lams-


John Laurens rides alone through the woods toward the current encampment of the Continental Army. He listens to the sounds of birds, the wind through leaves and his horse's hooves over fallen twigs, all peaceful and calm with nothing to indicate that a war rages through every corner of this land.

Until the spring, Laurens attended school in England to obtain his law degree. However, as the revolution against England grew, Laurens longed to return home to South Carolina and the colonies at large. He at once wished to join the American cause, feeling himself a patriot in as much ideals as in his very soul. The ideas of freedom from unjust rule as well as an opportunity for personal glory on the battle field were not calls which Laurens could ignore.

Now, Laurens leaves behind his father in Philadelphia as well as a wife and child in England; the latter he cares little about leaving as his inclinations have always tended toward another direction. He knows he should care more for her but she is simply not what he desires, despite his best efforts. However, with his new appointment to the army and his commitment to the patriotic cause, he is confident he shall have no such unnatural temptations here. He would have run straight to the front lines to fight if he could have but he had his father to appease and protocol to uphold. Fortunately, his petition to General Washington for the position of aide–de–camp was accepted. He shall work for the most important man in their army and, though it may involve less sword than he should wish, Laurens has no doubt he shall write and fight for this war.

As the trees part somewhat over the path Laurens rides, he sees two sentries pulling their rifles at his approach.

"Halt!" One man shouts. "Who goes there?"

Laurens slows his horse. "John Laurens, from Philadelphia." He jumps down quickly and pulls the letter from General Washington from his cloak. "I have a summons from the General."

He hands it over to the closer soldier who passes it to the other. Possibly the man cannot read.

The second man scans the letter quickly then nods. "Welcome to camp, sir." He hands the letter back then gestures down the path. "If you follow the path, you will see the encampment half a mile on, they shall lead you to the General's tent."

Laurens nods, "Thank you."

With a hand up from the first man, Laurens climbs back on his horse and trots on down the road. Sun shines through the trees, the leaves still green, if a few clusters hinting at the coming fall colors.

"Such peaceful woods and land we shall defend," Laurens whispers to himself.

Not long through the thick, the forest suddenly parts and the huge expanse of an encamped army appears before Laurens with long lines of white tents and the buzz of men. Another pair of soldiers guard a roughly made entrance arch. There is no wall built around the camp so it appears almost comical to have the gate, as it is, at all. Yet military habit is hard to break as far as Laurens has seen.

"I have a summons," Laurens says before the two guards may ask, reaching down to hold out his letter.

The man who recieves it only glances for a brief moment then hands it back. "Follow the main line down, you will see it."

Laurens frowns. "How should I know it?"

Both men chuckle. "You shall know it, sir," the one man says, "largest of the lot."

"And very French at present," the other quips.

Laurens frowns. "Speak plainly, sirs."

They both gesture straight down the main drive through the encampment. "Ride straight."

Laurens sighs and pushes his horse on slowly through the stand alone arch and into the lines of tents. He keeps his horse on the straight line they indicated but cannot stop his eyes sliding from side to side over the camp. He takes in the hundreds, even thousands of tents in row after row, line after line across the countryside. Part of the land looks recently cleared with some stumps between many of the tents with the rest twisting as lines will allow through the breaks in the trees. He watches soldiers stoking small fires, men cleaning rifles, laughter, a shout of orders, someone running faster than Laurens' horse with a stack of letters in hand.

He watches the man skid to a halt in front of one tent as someone yells, "Reed, wait!"

Then Laurens rides on further out of earshot. It takes but five minutes before Laurens sees the tent the guards must mean. It is indeed larger than the personal tents of the soldiers and other supply shelters, rounder in construction with its own pair of guards in front of what must be the entrance. Laurens sees the flaps open and hears some voices inside.

Laurens swallows once as he stops his horse. He is not apprehensive as such but a man cannot help some nerves in such a moment. He has not met General Washington before and he is a legend in the army and their colonies as a whole. Laurens dismounts and hands his horse off to a private with quick words about its needed return to Philadelphia where he commissioned its use. Then he walks to the entrance of the tent, letter in hand.

"John Laurens," Laurens says, holding out the letter.

A guard nods at him then shifts around and steps into the tent. "Sir? A John Laurens to see you. He bears your seal in hand."

Laurens smiles at such efficiency among enlisted men. He has little time to think on it, however, before he walks through the flap and into the tall tent. Of the three men in the tent, there is no mistaking General George Washington, commander of the Continental army in their fight against the British. He stands taller than all the men present though Laurens is by no means short. He face appears stern yet somehow warm, enough that while Laurens feels he should stand at attention yet he does not feel off put. The General's hair is a red Laurens did not expect, certainly not the burst of Irish red he has seen in England but there is no mistaking the auburn there. Laurens would call his uniform, his manner, his simple presence in the space resplendent. He looks every bit the army commander.

Laurens takes off his hat, shoving it under one arm and slides off his gloves looking quickly around the large tent – one long table with several chairs, some maps hanging off ropes of the tent canvas and a pair of side boards on either edge of the tent walls. Then Laurens salutes as his father showed him begrudgingly in Philadelphia, proper as a man can be who has not served before, as proper as a man who wants to serve.

"Ah," the General says, "Mr. Laurens, I am pleased to see you with us so soon."

"Thank you, your Excellency." Laurens walks forward toward the trio on the other side of a long table taking up most of the tent. "It is a pleasure to meet you in person. My father has always spoken well of you."

The General smiles and makes a small noise of assent. "He is an honorable man." The General then turns to the two men beside him. "My military secretary, Lieutenant Colonel Robert Hanson Harrison."

The man nods at Laurens and shakes his hand congenially. Then the General turns to the other man in the room, nearly as tall as General Washington with powdered hair and much red trimming to his coat. Laurens knows he is French even before the General introduces him.

"A recent addition, such as yourself, to our ranks, The Marquis de Lafayette."

Laurens smiles, taking the man's hand. "Bonjour, monsieur."

"Bonjour," the Marquis replies, "is good to... eh... meet."

"Je suis heureux de vous rencontrer aussi, Marquis."

The man's face changes at Laurens' French, relief or joy, Laurens cannot truly tell.

"Ah, oui, merci beaucoup..."

Laurens thinks he wants to say more but at just meeting one another they have less yet to say and with the General beside them now, the Marquis turns to look at the General instead for their next actions.

"The Marquis comes to us with a commission of major general from congress," his Excellency explains.

Laurens raises his eyebrows in surprise, the Marquis appears as young as he. "Impressionnant!"

The Marquis nods once with a modest smile. "Je ferai de mon mieux pour le mériter." He turns to General Washington and nods, "Thank you, sir."

"Mr. Laurens," His Excellency continues, "is a volunteer aide to my office and comes highly recommended by congress."

Laurens looks down for a moment and nods, feeling less than the praise given. "By my father at least," Laurens corrects as tactfully as he may, "who is a member of congress."

"Oui, Henry Laurens, he, I have heard," the Marquis replies.

Laurens smiles appropriately but says nothing else.

"Well now, perhaps we should proceed," the General says turning to Harrison hovering still nearby. "Harrison, if you would not mind fetching Colonel Hamilton and Tilghman for me?"

"Yes, sir," Harrison says as he moves away toward the tent exit.

"Laurens, I shall be taking the Marquis on a tour of the camp while you become settled into your new responsibilities here." The General gestures to the Marquis. "Unfortunately, I am not versed in French as I should wish and though I know of your own fluency, I would not put you to such work so quickly."

"Sir, if you should wish –"

The general holds up his hand to stop Laurens. "Thank you, but you are not the only man among my staff who speaks French, though we are quite pleased to have you as another. I plan to put you toward much of the French translation work we have."

Laurens nods once . "Of course, sir."

"The Marquis has already begun his education in our language," General Washington continues. "As you have heard."

The Marquis smiles, an expression on his face that Laurens reminds him of himself – some part shameful and another part grateful at his father or superior's help – somewhat strange to see on the Frenchman but Laurens does not know him yet.

"Je suis encore lent à apprendre."

"You shall learn fast enough," Laurens says.

He thinks he should offer to help teach the Marquis but he cannot determine if this should be out of the bounds of propriety. Perhaps there will be time in the future; Laurens should not expect so much of one day. Still, he cannot help but feel eager to serve in any manner.

"I am confident," his Excellency continues, "And at present I have at least one other aide who may accompany us."

Laurens nods.

"You, sir, shall need to learn more of your duties and find a place for yourself. It may feel short lived, however, as we shall likely be moving again tomorrow."

Laurens frowns. "So soon?"

"Such is the nature of army life, Mr. Laurens."

Laurens feels himself smiling.

"Sir?"

Laurens turns at the sound of a new voice from the entrance to the tent.

A man walks in, sandy blond hair and a wide smile. "Ah, you must be our extra aide."

"And you must be attending myself and the Marquis, Tilghman."

Tilghman smiles. "Oui, I shall." He nods to the two of them. "As you wish, your Excellency."

"You also surmise correctly," the General continues with a gesture to Laurens, "Tench Tilghman, this is John Laurens."

Laurens shakes hands with the boisterous man who says, "Welcome to the army, Laurens!"

"Is this our new aide?"

Laurens' eyes shift past Tilghman at the second voice to see another man walking into the tent. The man ducks his head under a the flap as he removes his hat then looks up at their party with a wide smile. Laurens swallows once and tightens his hands around his gloves as he stares.

While the General's hair is an auburn – more autumn than fire – this man's hair is as close to Irish as one might expect, all oranges and reds and almost a shock of color that matches perfectly with his blue and cream uniform. He is shorter than Laurens, shorter than most in the room, but the way he walks – confident and almost cocky, like those in the room should be answering to him – offsets what another man might fear censure of. His face, his expression, is smooth and youthful, with narrow points but also delicate cheeks bearing an almost feminine blush to them. Perhaps it is the hair which makes such a notion enter Laurens' mind. And his eyes are... his eyes are blue, crystal blue but at once dark blue, like the sea, deep and dangerous and Laurens thinks they are beautiful.

Laurens pulls one hand free of his own tight grasp as he catches the end of what General Washington says, "... of my aides, Alexander Hamilton."

Hamilton grips Laurens hand and shakes it once. "A pleasure, sir."

"John Laurens." Laurens shakes his hand back. "And it is mine."

Hamilton lets go of Laurens' hand and Laurens' curls his fingers back up tightly by his side.

"Lieutenant Colonel," His Excellency addresses Hamilton. "If you would be so good as to acquaint our new Laurens here with our protocols, find him his tent, and have him set to work. I am sure you have some French which he could assist you with."

Hamilton nods. "Of course, your Excellency."

"I shall be taking Tilghman away from you for much of the day, I imagine."

The General looks at the Marquis again who grins back at him. Tilghman repeats the General's words in French though it appears it may have been unnecessary. Laurens suspects it will not take long for the Marquis to master their language.

"Your Excellency?" Laurens glances at the tent flap once more to see the first aide, Harrison, poking his head in. "Your horses are ready, sirs."

"Thank you, Harrison." The General looks at The Marquis and Tilghman in turn. "Gentlemen, if you will follow me."

They both say, "yes sir," almost at once then follow the General outside, all with nods of farewell.

Then Laurens and Hamilton stand alone in the tent.

Laurens shifts his hat down from under his arm into his hand, clearing his throat. "Lieutenant Colonel, please lead on, I am at your service."

Hamilton smiles at him with a shake of his head. "You need not address me by my rank, Laurens, we are of equal footing. Hamilton is well enough."

Laurens shakes his head once. "I have no such rank yet. I am but a volunteer."

Hamilton looks him up and down once. Laurens' hand clenches around his hat and he has the urge to fidget or tap his gloves on his leg but he keeps himself still.

Hamilton stares Laurens in the face again then nods. "You seem a man of conviction, to come as a volunteer, and accepted into the General's family, I think it should not be long before a rank shall be yours."

Laurens clears his throat. "Well, should I distinguish myself and earn some import on the field as to deserve it, I shall be glad accept it then."

Hamilton laughs once. "A modest man are you?"

"Merely a practical one. Why should I deserve a rank now?"

"Well, if you have a dedication to the patriot cause and your father is a member of our congress, is that not enough?"

Laurens frowns. "Do you think it enough? Would you rather lesser men with better names advance before you?"

Hamilton purses his lips and his expression changes. Laurens thinks he must have said the right thing. He feels the urge to grin.

"No, I would not but not all men think as I."

"I am not all men."

Hamilton smiles so it looks like a smirk then gestures toward the tent flaps. "Shall we?"

Laurens nods and follows Hamilton from the tent once more, swooping his hat back on his head and shoving his riding gloves into his coat pocket.

"At present we are confined to our tents and the command tent as you saw for our work," Hamilton gestures behind them, "but, when able, we will commandeer a house for the General and we his staff. I am afraid you may find it cramped and crude at times but such is the army with limited supplies and space as we find them."

"I understand," Laurens replies as they walk down the line of tents.

"As you may imagine, our work is much bound to the page and ink. The General mentioned translation, as you may know we have many Frenchmen rallied to our cause. It is myself and Tilghman and now, I understand, you who are fluent."

"I am adept in some other languages as well but I would not say fluent in any but French."

"And English I hope?" Hamilton flashes him a smile, the two of them now walking side by side with matching strides.

Laurens cannot help a chuckle. "I am so fortunate as to have mastered English even with schooling in England to attempt to put me off."

Hamilton laughs too. "Ah ha, better to return where we speak it best."

"No comparison, of course."

They laugh again, glancing at each other, Hamilton's smile shifting into something companionable.

"Well," Hamilton looks away ahead of them. "We are also called upon for many other tasks as the General's most trusted men. We have been used an envoys to other Generals in the field, as messengers. Meade is the best rider among us and sent most often. You shall meet him soon, I should imagine. Our tasks are more numerous than I am able to list now but we attend the General in any way he sees fit, be it in camp, as his representatives, to ride north or south or sit in on any meeting he requires. Your hand shall tire of writing within a fortnight."

Laurens smiles again. "Stains upon my fingers?"

Hamilton smirks back. "Undoubtedly." He holds up his right hand where Laurens spies an obvious blot of ink.

Laurens purses his lips and says quietly, "A shame to waste it."

Hamilton laughs once again. "Ah yes, we cannot afford to waste any supplies we have, even ink."

Laurens nods, ducks his head and watches the grass because he truly meant Hamilton's hands, not the ink.

"And," Hamilton says with an audible inhale of air, "we are required to entertain guests, general's wives for one, all manner of persons. Less than you may believe but more than you should hope."

Laurens chuckles again, watches their boots matching pace.

"Ah, what else?" Hamilton's hand brushes accidentally against Laurens' and Laurens pulls his hand closer to his side. "Writing out his Excellency's letters, always copying, I have at times been able to draft my own replies." His voice has a tone of some pride for a moment then he continues. "With so much correspondence you would think it a mountain."

Laurens looks up at Hamilton as he talks and the tents continue around them. Hamilton flashes a look at Laurens, all teeth and lips. "And when upon the battlefield, we are still to relay messages, often recoonoitering ahead of the fray."

"And to fight?"

Hamilton frowns. "But little."

Laurens suspected such before his arrival but he had hoped for a different reality. "Have you seen battle yourself?"

Hamilton nods. "I was at Trenton and New York before joining the General's family."

"And now?"

"Now a desk occupies much of my time but it is a needed work as much as the sword."

Laurens sighs and whispers, "I should prefer the sword..."

"I understand you." Laurens looks at Hamilton sharply not intending for him to have heard. "But it is where you are now, is it not?"

"Yes."

"And you are still an extra aid, perhaps something different shall lie ahead of you."

Laurens thinks perhaps Hamilton is forward in his predictions or advice on Laurens' station and advancement, but he finds it does not feel as such. "I think my name puts me here but I know myself and know what a call to arms feels like."

They walk three steps with no words then Hamilton says. "Our pen is our sword until it may change into that which we seek. If our ink will not steer the way, then how should our victories occur? How should these men find their fights?"

Laurens looks up at Hamilton. "You think not of glory?"

Hamilton's lips twist as he walks, his stride quickening somewhat. "I do." Then he glances at Laurens. "But I am here now and by the General's side, I do not call that lacking. If I am able to serve, be it by pen or sword, then I should do so in defense of my country. Do you not agree?"

Laurens nods back. "I do."

Laurens worries now that Hamilton will be a problem or worse, not a problem at all but a pleasure far more than he should be in Laurens' eyes.

"Ah!" Hamilton says suddenly, his voice rising to break the hush between them Laurens had not marked until then. "Meade!"

A man on horseback Laurens now notices riding toward them stops suddenly, the man in the saddle smiling down at them. "Have you kidnapped yourself an aide of your own, Hamilton," the man who must be Meade says, "or is this our newest family edition?"

"The latter, Meade. I should be sure not to kidnap anyone."

Meade chuckles. "I shall believe it never, a man with hair as red as you?"

Hamilton huffs. "Meade..."

"Yes, of course." Meade puts a hand to his breast. "My apologies, I am Richard Kidder Meade, and just returned from a long ride, you must excuse my jest."

Laurens smiles up at him. "I do."

"This is John Laurens," Hamilton introduces.

Laurens bows once, touching his hat. Meade returns the gesture then holds up what appears to be a packet of letters from his saddle bag. "I have much correspondence for the General. I may entrust it to you while I quarter my horse, Hamilton?"

Hamilton holds up his hand. "As ever, Kidder."

Meade hands off the letters. "Much appreciated." Then he trots away again behind them.

Hamilton looks down at the letters for a moment, thumbing over the corners. Laurens finds himself leaning in, his hand up to try and look at the seals on the back. Then Hamilton shifts the letters toward Laurens so their knuckles touch. "Five new French, I count, and perhaps I shall put you straight to these."

Laurens drops his hand then leans back again away from Hamilton quickly. "I will help as I am bid."

Hamilton smiles. "Then I bid you follow me here for a moment before we find your tent."

They cut to the right off the main line to another area of tents, the posts appear more sturdy and the tents bigger. Laurens imagines this grouping must be for officers.

"Reed?" Hamilton calls as they near one tent with a flap tied open.

They stop at the entrance to the tent. A man inside writes bent over a lopsided desk with one leg too far into the dirt.

"And what should you want Hamilton?"

"I have correspondence."

"As do we all," Reed replies, still not looking up, as he dips his quill in ink. "What would you call this?"

"I would call it but a portion of the stack you shall have."

Reed looks up at that. His pen pauses when he notices Hamilton is not alone. "Ah."

Hamilton pulls three letters from the bundle in his hand, "Two Putnam and Wayne."

Reed holds out his hand. "Of course."

Hamilton gives him the letters and Reed drops them on a pile balanced on the higher corner of his desk. He then looks at Laurens, glancing him down then up. He raises an eyebrow at Hamilton.

"John Laurens," Hamilton answers, "our newest aid."

"Extra aide is he not? Not yet official."

Laurens purses his lips but just keeps himself from frowning outright. "As yet I am only a volunteer."

"Yes, we have many of those, less so as aides."

"Do you disparage our dear Tilghman?" Hamilton asks.

Hamilton's attempt at levity clearly falls flat as Reed turns back to his desk. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." His tone sounds less so.

Laurens glances at Hamilton. Hamilton frowns then turns on his heel so Laurens must hop once to catch him again.

"The man can be insufferable," is all Hamilton says on the matter.

Laurens decides he dislikes Reed.

They walk on down the line, their gaits finding each other once again, stride for stride. A few people call out to Hamilton as they walk but he waves a hand and does not stop their path.

"It will take you time, of course, to adjust to the movement of life in our army. We remain in one place seldom during the season of battle and are hurried often with our work."

"I have no fear of it," Laurens replies making Hamilton glance at him. "I did not come just to punch a card of credit in doing so. I came because I believe in what we may attain."

Hamilton slows his pace somewhat. "Some might say your father's views are all yours might be."

Laurens' jaw clenches because Hamilton is not wrong, not with the well known and opinionated man Laurens' father is. For a moment he thinks Hamilton harbors some ill report of Laurens but his expression is open, interested. He simply wishes to know.

"My father and myself do share some views, liberty for our colonies, of course, but we are not the same man and we do not always agree."

Hamilton gives him an odd look something either like envy or reproach but Laurens cannot explain it before Hamilton looks away again.

"I did not believe so." He smiles, a charm Laurens has begun to realize Hamilton effortlessly practices on all. "You seem a man bound to make his own mark."

"And I think you are the same."

Hamilton chuckles once but says nothing. Then suddenly he stops. Laurens has to shift his weight backward so as not to pass Hamilton. Hamilton puts his hand on Laurens' arm to steady him and Laurens counts one, two, three, then Hamilton shifts on Four, pointing at the tent beside him.

"And this is myself."

He ducks into the tent, placing the letters on the desk within. "We often work in the command tent but today the General had an early meeting with only Harrison to attend him so we have worked in our own spaces."

Hamilton looks back over his shoulder as he bends over beside the desk, his breeches pulling tight and his voice hitting somewhere at desk level. "Have you met Harrison?"

Laurens makes a noise of confirmation, keeping his eyes just above where Hamilton's head lies and nowhere else.

"Good." Hamilton stands up straight again, a travel writing desk over his one arm. He props it on the standing desk, opens it, then puts the letters inside. "There." He smiles, the full presence of his blue eyes on Laurens. "Now I have but to show you to your own tent."

"That is all?" Laurens says with slight tone of disappointment he hopes goes unnoticed.

Hamilton tilts his head. "Would you not wish a rest? To put your things in order?"

Laurens realizes then he did not bother to ask where his possessions may have been put when he set aside his horse. "I... I had thought to attend straight to work."

Hamilton chuckles. "A man after my own heart." Laurens swallows once. Then Hamilton turns and continues down the line, the desk at his side.

Laurens clenches his teeth, watching Hamilton walk for three steps before striding after him. Laurens reminds himself that he need not act as he has in the past; that Hamilton does not know him; that Laurens can – must – act as a man should and not as he desires.

"Have no fear," Hamilton says, as they walk. "I shall come to collect you soon. If Tilghman should be with the General and his new Frenchman for many hours yet, then I will need assistance in translation. I could do it all myself but there are always copies and only so much light to see by."

"I would be pleased to help."

"Here."

Laurens stops beside an empty tent, four posts and one flap tied back.

"Here?" Laurens asks.

"Your tent."

Laurens peers in from where he stands, a cot set up with linens and little else. "I had not thought..."

"That we should have it ready?" Hamilton interrupts with a smug expression. "For a new aide, of course we do."

"I am not yet a true aide," Laurens says as he turns to Hamilton again.

Hamilton chuckles, "A day of writing shall see you so."

"I also seem to have forgotten to attend to my own belongings as I have none of them with me now." Laurens sighs, feeling foolish. "Where ever my horse should have gone, they are with it."

Hamilton's lips shift oddly and Laurens realizes he tries not to laugh. "I should imagine one of the General's house staff will find it right." Hamilton tilts his head again then taps Laurens' lapel with one finger. "Your uniform."

Laurens looks down at the deep green and brown of his dress, something simple he felt suiting for a first introduction to his new commander. "My Uniform?"

"You should need it now I think, yes?"

"Yes, I believe my father had one commissioned."

Hamilton worries his lower lip for a moment. "Then perhaps it is here?"

Laurens sighs again. "I find myself lacking in such knowledge as well."

Hamilton smiles at him. "We all make many plans which go astray."

Laurens nods but can think of nothing else to say at present as Hamilton quietly watches him. He wants to say something more but they seem to have reached a gully in their time together now. Laurens thinks perhaps he should not keep the man from his work. Yet he also finds Hamilton's eyes difficult to turn away from.

Before Laurens may choose any action, he hears his name. "Mr. John Laurens?"

Laurens turns to see a black man carrying what Laurens recognizes as his own bag with a wooden box underneath it in his arms. "I am he."

The man glances at the tent beside them. "Yours, sir?"

"Yes."

The man ducks in, resting the box and the bag down on the bed.

"Ask and you shall receive," Hamilton says quietly, his eyes on the box.

Then the new man steps out once more with a bow. "Apologies, sir. We understand you need a desk too?"

"He does," Hamilton answers.

"We shall work at finding you one. Good day, sir." He nods once more then turns back the way he came.

Laurens watches him, the way he walks – head down, skirting close to the tents, avoiding every soldier in his path.

"There are slaves here," Laurens says, not a question.

"Some," Hamilton says after a pause. "The General has his own, as do some other southern Generals and officers in particular."

Laurens watches the man, his brown coat – dressed to match the ground, the woods, dressed to disappear – until he cuts around a tent where Laurens can no longer see. Laurens clenches his teeth, thinks of home, of wide cropped fields and the biting sing of a whip in the air.

"You are against slavery?" Hamilton says from behind him with some caution in his tone.

"I am," Laurens says without a pause.

Laurens finally turns back around to see Hamilton's expression, to know more than what he might say aloud. Hamilton, however, looks at Laurens with what may be pride. "As am I," Hamilton replies.

Laurens' shoulders ease from unrealized tension and he smiles.

"Well," Hamilton says hiking up the strap on his shoulder. "I shall leave you to uniform yourself then return so you may translate this French to English with me."

"Thank you."

Hamilton walks on past Laurens then, down the line of tents. Laurens watches him, the writing desk swaying against his side, hitting him rhythmically in the thigh. Laurens allows himself a moment to just watch Hamilton, to wonder what more there is to know about this charming man he just met. Then Laurens steps back into his tent as Hamilton turns the corner at the end of the row, closing off the flap behind him.

Laurens takes off his hat and drops it on the free end of his cot. He focuses on the box, a stamp on it with the name of a tailor. Laurens pulls off the top and inside sees buttons and blue.

"Uniform," he whispers to himself.

Oddly it all feels real now, not some set of a play. Laurens reaches out and runs a hand over the wool. His father would be sure to obtain the best.

"Well," Laurens says to himself and begins to pull off his coat and pick out the pieces of his new uniform.

Laurens slowly dresses himself in the new clothes, making sure they all fit well. They do, of course. He would not expect less when Henry Laurens is the author of the their making. He changes his shirt and breeches, a new waistcoat and the top coat of an officer with long lines of shinny new buttons down his lapels. He has not tied a cravat for himself in some time, having servants in England to aid him, but Laurens is, if anything, not a man to shrink from a challenge. Also the cravat of an army man need not be fanciful, so he manages.

He is just buttoning the last of his waistcoat and checking the lines of his new attire when a knock comes at one of the posts of his tent with a, "Laurens?"

Laurens tenses at once. He stares at the empty box for a breath then shifts around toward the flap of his tent. He pushes it back to see the man, Meade, he met riding past not long ago. He clicks his teeth then steps back out into the warm sun. "Meade?"

"Well now, you clean up well, do you not?"

"Was I less clean before?"

Meade chuckles. "Less uniformed. But enough of my chatter, I have come to collect you to work straight away."

"Of course," Laurens says glancing behind Meade for any other familiar faces.

"We are in the command tent once more so we may have the better space to labor. Also, I hear you are an addition to our French speakers?"

"I am."

"Perfect, come along then."

Meade trots quickly ahead down the line, Laurens following after. Meade swerves them around a cart manned by three soldiers holding all manner of metal pots. They pass a group of camp followers, all women, hauling baskets of tan and white cloth. A few of them smile in his direction, one whispering to another. Laurens looks away quickly with a frown. He hears a giggle from the gaggle as they continue on. Laurens only speeds up his gait to keep pace with Meade. He tries to keep track of the rows, which tents belong to officers, which enlisted men, where he sees horses kept and crude structures made to house shot and powder for the brief stay.

"We will be quite pleased to have your pen added to our ranks," Meade says as they walk. "We lost a member of our staff in the spring and the work has only increased with the pace of the war."

"I am glad to be of service," Laurens says, a flash of red hair catching his attention for a moment. He sees an unfamiliar face with green eyes and a weak chin. Then Meade turns then out onto the main thoroughfare through the camp.

"Are you an able rider?" Meade asks.

Laurens frowns and looks down slightly at Meade, only a few inches shorter than himself. "I rode here."

Meade purses his lips and shoots a look at Laurens – Laurens notices his dark hair matches his eyes. "I think that an evasion to my question. Are you in truth a most horrid rider?" Lauren huffs for a moment, confused, then Meade laughs. "My apologies, Laurens, I jest. I have no doubt of your able riding."

"Ah..."

"Simply, I wonder at being replaced as our most common agent to ride messages as needed."

"I am sure they do not intend me to replace you. I imagine it is my French which brings me most acclaim."

"Indeed."

Then the large command tent comes in to view, a circle of empty space around it and its poles tallest of the encampment. Laurens notices the guards of when he first arrived are no longer present. Meade walks straight into the tent, Laurens nearly catching the flap in the face as they enter. Inside two men sit at table, a small number of papers spread between them.

"Gentlemen," Meade says.

Both men turn their heads; one is Harrison, the other Laurens has not yet met.

"Ah," Harrison says. "Laurens, we have some need of you as our other two aides who speak French are not to be found."

"Lieutenant Colonel Tilghman went with his Excellency," Laurens says. He sees Meade give him a look out of the corner of his eye. "Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton I saw not long past but I cannot say where he went."

"And that is why we require you," Harrison says, standing with some letters in hand. "If you are ready to assume your duties at once then I have them for you."

Laurens nods. "I am."

Meade claps his hands once. "Splendid." Meade gestures to the table for Laurens to sit. "I should also introduce, as Harrison has failed to, John Fitzgerald."

Harrison sighs but does not comment on Meade's slight as Fitzgerald stands, reaching across the table to shake Laurens' hand. "Welcome, sir."

"Thank you."

"Where is Reed?" Harrison asks as the four of them sit down and places some letters before Laurens.

"I believe he is in his tent," Laurens says, "if we speak of the same Reed."

"Sullen chap?" Meade asks.

Laurens presses his lips together trying to think of something politic. However, his pause causes Meade and Fitzgerald to both say, "that is Reed."

"And did none inform him of this tent's vacancy?" Harrison asks. Meade and Fitzgerald look at each other and make unintelligible noises. Harrison sighs, putting his pen down on the table. "Alas it falls to me."

"He may remain in his tent if he wishes," Fitzgerald says.

"He has a desk," Meade adds.

Laurens bites the very edge of his lip, glancing back and forth between the two. Harrison gives them all a look much like a father to naughty sons then stands and walks to the tent entrance and outside.

Fitzgerald makes a displeased noise. "And now we shall have the groans and sighs once more."

"Perhaps his mood has improved," Meade tries.

Laurens glances nonchalantly at the papers scattered over the table. "Though I do not yet well know the man he seemed..." He looks up to see both men watching him. "...out of sorts upon my introduction to him."

Meade and Fitzgerald look at each other then back to Laurens.

"Out of sorts?" Meade asks.

Laurens glances at Meade, over to Fitzgerald who watches him with his pen motionless, then back to Meade. "Peevish," Laurens corrects.

Meade laughs instantly and Fitzgerald nods. "You shall fit in well," Fitzgerald says.

"I do believe he shall."

Laurens turns to see Hamilton now standing just inside the tent flaps, hat under his one arm and writing desk over the other. Laurens smiles.

"Now Hamilton, do you think our table here not well enough for your writing you bring your desk with you?" Meade chides in a clearly amused tone.

Hamilton's eyes shift to Meade and he cocks his head. "I had not thought to find so much space."

"He lies," Meade whispers to Laurens. "He believes his desk gives him some distinction so he carries it as often as he is able."

"Kidder," Fitzgerald says, "You shall give Laurens the impression we have no professional behavior at all among the General's aides."

"I only aim to make him at ease."

Fitzgerald and Hamilton laugh again, as Hamilton walks around the back of their chairs, choosing the vacant chair beside Laurens, Meade on Laurens' other side. Hamilton puts his desk down in a space free then opens it to pull out some of the letters from earlier, adding them to the pile in the middle. He fingers through the still unopened letters in from of Laurens.

"And only three to translate." Hamilton looks up at Laurens. "You shall think we do not work."

"I should think it is not only French in which the army corresponds."

Hamilton smiles. "Quite so." Hamilton reaches into the middle of the table, picks up two quills then holds one out to Laurens. "Best begin."

Laurens takes the quill, watching Hamilton's hand as it pulls away then shifts his travel desk down to lean against his chair. Laurens picks up one letter, dips his quill in Meade's ink pot and pulls a blank sheet of paper toward himself.

The aides work in silence for several minutes, only the scratch of quills between them and the sounds of the camp outside the canvas walls. Hamilton slides the letter before him toward Laurens once, pointing at some words scrawled so illegibly that a 'quelle' appears as a 'quand.'

"I should worry at our messages becoming corrupt with such writing," Hamilton groans.

Laurens writes the correct French on the letter should someone else need to read it at a later time. "Perhaps some instruction to refresh our commanders on proper handwriting?"

Hamilton makes a 'heh' noise and taps his quill on a blotting paper, twirling out a Q in jagged fashion, "Like so."

"No, no," Laurens says, moving his quill to the same page and making his Q look more like a P. "Like so."

Hamilton laughs quietly again. "Ah yes, I see the right."

Laurens doodles a large Q with a an extra curl at the beginning and swirl to the end.

"Well, Laurens, I do believe you should write for all the army if you should pen your letters in such finery."

Laurens purses his lips, writes an R with two extra curls at its head, then an S with a large swirl so it looks more a treble clef, then a T whose tail crosses through the straight line twice. Hamilton chuckles again then grips the feather of Laurens' quill to stop him. Laurens pauses, worrying he has gone too far. But Hamilton merely pulls the quill up an inch, Laurens' hand still grasping it, and moves it back to Laurens' half translated page.

"Better to use your skill upon."

"Or to mind my work," Laurens says, looking to his French letter once more.

"For now."

Laurens glances at Hamilton, just catching his smile and blue eyes before Hamilton turns back to his own page.

"And here you all are."

The four men look up as Reed walks into the tent, papers in hand and Harrison behind him.

"Reed," Fitzgerald says. "Do sit."

Reed makes a face but simply moves to the table, drops his papers so he nearly upsets an ink pot then sits beside Fitzgerald. Laurens just catches Meade shoot an amused look at Fitzgerald who only frowns back. Harrison moves around the table and sits on Fitzgerald's other side again.

"I saw his Excellency upon our return," Harrison says. "There is to be review of positions and expectations of tomorrow's march before dinner."

The other aides nod and make noises of assent.

"And Tilghman?" Meade asks.

"Ever espousing French."

Meade chuckles.

"French?" Reed says as he shuffles papers with one hand and writes with the other. "Have we received yet another?"

"Yes," Harrison says.

Reed sighs. "Could they not revolt in their own country?"

"We do not revolt," Fitzgerald says.

"It is a revolution," Meade corrects, "mind one's grammar."

Reed scoffs.

"And why should you find any displeasure in another recruit?" Hamilton adds. "Any man may be of use."

"To pack more at the top, I should imagine," Reed says. "I would prefer another common solider."

Meade scoffs and Fitzgerald shakes his head. "Social reformer among us," Fitzgerald says.

"How dare we give commissions," Meade mocks.

"You know nothing of him yet," Hamilton says to Reed. "And you generalize."

"He seemed most amiable," Laurens says with some caution. "And eager to learn."

Reed shifts his eyes slowly to Laurens, lips pursed. "You met?"

"He was here when I arrived."

"Hmm."

"He is the Marquis de Lafayette, commissioned an honorary Major General and Reed you will meet him before long so give your judgment then," Harrison says with a tone of finality to the conversation.

Reed however, picks up a stick of wax, lips tight and mutters, "Marquis, is it..."

No one responds this time.

"You met the Marquis?" Hamilton asks Laurens quietly after the writing resumes.

Laurens glances at him. "But briefly."

"I have not yet had the pleasure. I believe his arrival only preceded yours by mere hours."

Laurens nods. "He did seem as fresh as myself to the atmosphere of the camp."

Hamilton chuckles. "Do we intimidate so?"

"I did not say such."

"No?"

"The camp is simply... vast. One feels lost among a sea of white fabric and uniforms."

"Ah." Hamilton nods as he dips his quill into his ink well once more. "I have no doubt you shall feel at ease soon. You are part of the family and we shall set you right."

"Family..." Laurens echoes.

"The General refers to we aides as his military family." Hamilton smiles, the expression soft and it seems to Laurens almost wistful or fond.

"Yes," Laurens replies. "He said so in his letter to me."

Hamilton nods as he writes a last sentence on his page. "He is a stern military man but not without some..." Hamilton worries his lip. "Not without sentiment."

"And your sentiment?" Laurens asks, pushing the lines of propriety.

Hamilton looks at him, an odd expression on his face.

Then the General's voice suddenly says, "Gentlemen."

Every man around the table quickly rises to their feet, Laurens only a breath behind. "Sir" – "Your Excellency" – "General."

Tilghman and the Marquis flank him on either side as they step into the tent.

"I imagine Harrison will have informed you of our meeting?"

"Yes, sir," Harrison replies.

Fitzgerald and Meade begin stoppering ink pots as Hamilton and Reed stack letters. Laurens gathers up quills and Tilghman places a large map into the space made.

"Now, where is it we are marching?" The General asks.

They meet with the General, plotting routes and reviewing intelligence from the surrounding areas, for but an hour before Tilghman rolls the map up once more. Dinner is set on the same table where they worked and Laurens thinks about what Hamilton said on cramped spaces. The dinner for General Washington and his staff is not sumptuous like a southern ball but it is certainly adequate. Washington sits at the head with Harrison at his right and the Marquis at his left. Laurens sits beside the Marquis with Tilghman across from him to assist in any translation needed. Hamilton sits on Laurens other side and does not appear at all put out from the shift in translator duties. Perhaps the other aides feel Laurens needs a test.

Reed and Fitzgerald at the far end of the table start an argument about the changing nature of combat – British strategy and the colonial ambush. A man named Caleb Gibbs, who apparently manages the house accounts and captains the life guard, breezes in for a few minutes with reports but cannot stay for food. Tilghman and the Marquis start a discussion about the Monarchy in France with Laurens trying to keep up the translating for the General and Harrison.

"My departure from France was not with as much favor as I should wish," Laurens says for the Marquis.

"Avez–vous fui?" Tilghman asks.

The Marquis laughs. "A travers l'Angleterre avec beaucoup de déguisement"

"Did you flee?" Laurens says for Tilghman with an added hiss of, "you may also speak English." Then begins to translate for the Marquis but Tilghman starts his French again before Laurens speaks a word. Laurens sighs, "You must slow down, sirs!"

Hamilton chuckles beside him and General Washington waves a hand. "It is no matter. I am certain I shall manage with a summary."

"Eh," the Marquis says. "My apologies. I must..." He looks at Tilghman. "Entraine toi?"

"Practice."

"Practice," the Marquis repeats.

"You may let them be," Hamilton says. "Lafayette shall be fluent in a fortnight."

"Ah yes?"

"With the pace of our army he must."

"And you think him up to the challenge as you met him only an hour past?"

Hamilton chuckles again and taps his fork on his plate. "I am an excellent judge of character."

The party sups for two hours, longer than some nights, Hamilton explains, as a welcome is required for new members. Laurens guesses the reception more for the Frenchman than his own benefit but he is pleased to enjoy it none the less.

"Well." The General rises from his seat, glass in hand and their plates gone now. "A toast to our newest members of the family." He holds his glass toward Lafayette and then Laurens. "Thank you for joining us in the struggle."

Laurens nods as does the Marquis.

"Here, here," Hamilton says echoed around the table.

The men raise their glasses and drink together. As the sharp liquid runs down Laurens' throat, he feels a grin on his face and the sense of himself on the edge of the most important era of his life, of a fight he wants and of a new sort of comradely all around him.

As the men depart for their evening quarters, Hamilton stops Laurens just outside the tent entrance as Laurens doffs his hat.

"Laurens?"

Laurens turns to Hamilton, Hamilton's hat still under his arm. "I wonder if I might trouble you for some minutes yet before you retire?"

"Yes?" Laurens asks.

Hamilton smiles, putting on his hat. "I would ask you to read something."

"Oh?"

Hamilton smiles and begins to walk down the line. Laurens follows him, keeping pace. The night is dark now, the sun fully set. Laurens sees a few small fires dotting the expanse of the encampment. It is, however, late summer so few are needed for warmth. Laurens hears laughter in the distance, the sound of men in their cups. A horse whinnies and someone shouts a curse. Hamilton turns them into the line of officers tents, candle light emanating from under the flaps of most in the line.

Hamilton stops at his tent, flipping back one side of the canvas and disappearing inside. Laurens stands outside the tent, hearing Hamilton moving about within. A faint light appears under the edge of the canvas.

Laurens breathes in slowly. He reminds himself he is here for the cause and the war. He is here to fight and serve. He whispers to himself, "You are stronger than this thing inside you."

Hamilton suddenly pokes his head out through the tent flaps again. "Laurens?"

Laurens nods at him and forces himself to move forward and follow Hamilton into the tent. Once inside, Laurens pulls off his hat and glances around the small space quickly – a neatly made cot as in his own, two saddle bags under the cot, and a desk. The desk has some papers on top mostly hidden within a portfolio. Laurens spies Hamilton's travel desk under the larger piece of furniture. Perhaps a servant brought it back here while there were at supper.

"Now," Hamilton says, pulling a before unseen folding chair from under his cot and opening for Laurens. "Please sit."

Laurens does as he is bid, placing his hat on his lap, while Hamilton opens his portfolio and shuffles through the papers. "Ah." He pulls out a small stack of maybe five sheets. "I would ask your opinion on this."

"My opinion?"

"Yes."

Laurens takes the sheets looking down at the header, 'On the Matter of Slavery.' Laurens looks up again. "Hamilton..."

"You said you were against slavery and in a time of upheaval as this with our fight and desire to gain our own freedom from the British is not the question of freedom for the enslaved in this country merited the same critical eye?"

Laurens nods, reading through the first few lines. "You have written this on the matter of slavery, on its abolition?"

"Well," Hamilton says, his hip against the desk. "It is a more theoretical work at present."

Laurens frowns, peering over the edge of the papers. "You spend your days working with pen and paper and at the end of it you find time to continue so, writing essays of your own?"

Hamilton's lips quirk up and he crosses his arms. "And why not?"

"Does your hand not tire?"

Hamilton grins. "Never."

Laurens chuckles back, reading down the page – The idea of the nature of the black man in relation to the white and what if the British should attempt to arm slaves.

"Have you thought to publish this?" Laurens asks as he reads.

Hamilton purses his lips. "It is a complicated issue and I would also not wish my words to affect our General."

Laurens looks up from the page sharply. "The issue is only complicated because men value their pockets more than their decency."

Hamilton raises his eyebrows in surprise.

Laurens clears his throat and stands up suddenly, his hat falling to the ground. "My apologies Hamilton. I mean you no offense."

Hamilton watches him for a moment and Laurens fears the ready companionable rapport they have formed may be broken by his words.

Then Hamilton says, "you are from South Carolina, yes?"

"I am."

"There are less from your quarter who would speak as you do."

Laurens nods. "Perhaps."

"But your feelings are different?"

"In many respects." Hamilton smiles and Laurens' fingers clench around the pages still in his hand. "And from where do you hail?"

Hamilton's eyes shift away for a moment then he looks at Laurens again. "I was schooled in New York."

"Then you may know less of the evils of slavery, how the lives of those in bondage matter little and those who hold them turn cruel."

Hamilton's lips press together, his hand sliding flat on the desk. "I believe all those who live in our colonies must understand the sin of slavery."

"And so you write on this sin." Laurens holds up the pages.

Hamilton smiles. "I write on many subjects. I sometimes feel I cannot keep them in my mind."

Hamilton reaches out and takes the pages back from Laurens.

"Have not read the entirety," Laurens protests.

"It is late, " Hamilton says. "I should not have asked it of you so soon."

"I am not weary."

Hamilton puts the papers down on his portfolio. "Why did you volunteer for this position?"

Laurens frowns. "I am a patriot as you."

"Your father is with Congress. You might remain there."

"I am not my father. A man must make his own path. I would prefer to fight."

"And yet you share a desk now as I, an aide to the General. Would you not wish more?"

"You ask pressing questions, sir, for one so new in acquaintance." Laurens tries to appear affronted but finds he is not truly. "I am not a true aide yet, merely a volunteer. There is no reason to suppose I shall not fight as well. I can assure you of my boldness."

Hamilton smiles slowly. "I can believe it."

Laurens swallows and pushes the subject on. "Might I ask why you inquire so deeply?"

Hamilton turns away, shuffling his papers in his portfolio and closing it slowly. Laurens thinks oddly, for a moment, that Hamilton does not know the answer.

Then Hamilton turns back. "You appear to be a man of passion and conviction. I know only little of this yet and wished to know if I have the right of you."

"You have known me but a day. What might I think in turn of you?"

Hamilton purses his lips and his posture shifts into a lean. "That I write uncommonly well?"

Laurens laughs in surprise. He tilts his head down and looks at the grass, their boots toe and toe in line, less than a foot between them. He glances up again. "Should you allow me to read more of your work sometime I shall answer you in this."

Hamilton nods. "Good."

They fall silent, the sounds of the camp sharpening in the gap – a buzz of voices, hooves, wind in the trees, the creak of wagons. Laurens curls his fingers and uncurls them, glancing at the cot then at Hamilton's hair catching the light from his candle.

"Well..." Hamilton says breaking the stillness. "I should not keep you from your rest."

Laurens looks at the portfolio again, closed and Hamilton's hand upon it, nothing more of note in the tent. "Of course."

Hamilton stoops to pick up Laurens' hat then holds it out for him. "Are you able to find your way?"

Laurens nods, taking his hat from its farthest point. "I am but down the line and should be one of the few empty, I imagine."

Hamilton chuckles. "You may be surprised." Laurens wonders wildly at Hamilton's meaning then Hamilton continues. "I shall see you upon the morrow. We meet each morning with the General and earlier before a march. You will hear the sounds to wake you."

Laurens nods again. "Thank you."

Laurens holds out his hand which Hamilton grasps and shakes. Laurens let's go a again, fisting his hand tight then he turns out onto the path.

"Oh! Laurens?" Laurens turns back toward Hamilton just as he puts on his hat. Hamilton smiles wide, perfectly framed by the candle light and his eyes like crystal. "A pleasure to have met you."

Laurens smiles back. "And the same to you."

Then Laurens turns and walks carefully through the undergrowth until he reaches his tent. He pushes aside the flap and steps into the darkness, letting the flap fall closed again behind him. Laurens blows out a held breath then takes another long breath in and out.

"An essay against slavery even to add to his charms?" Laurens mutters to himself as he slips his hat off, dropping it onto the new desk waiting by one canvas wall.

Laurens closes his eyes, his teeth tight. Then he grabs at his coat, buttons catching his fingers so he pulls wrongly and struggles until he finally yanks it off one arm then shakes his other arm so it falls onto his cot. Laurens huffs angrily, pacing two steps across his tent then back again in the darkness.

Laurens runs a hand over his face once then let's his arm fall. "Shit."

Laurens thinks Alexander Hamilton is a most beautiful unexpected problem.


End file.
